


shut them in with their triumphs and their glories and the rest

by ratherembarrassing



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-14
Updated: 2012-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-31 03:55:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/339606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratherembarrassing/pseuds/ratherembarrassing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rachel and Santana and the author ripping off Mad About You's season 1 Valentine's Day episode.</p>
            </blockquote>





	shut them in with their triumphs and their glories and the rest

  
They’re running so late.  
  
Santana’s dragging mascara across her eyelashes, and Rachel’s still in the shower singing ‘New York, New York’, which—  
  
“You promised,” she calls over the running water.  
  
“Sorry,” is all she gets in response, and then Rachel switches to ‘Empire State of Mind’, which is less annoying and more hilarious, but seriously, “Can you hurry up, Ray-Z, we’re going to be late.”  
  
She recaps the mascara and is digging around for her lip gloss when she notices Asparagus drinking out of the toilet. “Ew, Rach, he’s doing it again.”  
  
Rachel’s head pokes around the shower curtain. “Just put him outside and close the door.”  
  
“Why do we have to spend Valentine’s Day with Blaine and Kurt, anyway?” she asks for what is admittedly the thirtieth time that day. She closes the bathroom door on Gus and goes back to the mirror.  
  
“Because we promised—”  
  
” _You_  promised.”  
  
“—and it’s Kurt’s favorite holiday. He loves match-making, you know that.”  
  
“So? We don’t need match-making. We’re matched, there’s nothing to be made.”  
  
“Exactly. We’re the role models.”  
  
“Now that’s scary.”  
  
“Santana, come on,” Rachel says. Santana hears the water shut off, can see Rachel climb out of the tub in the mirror, water dripping all over the mat and tiles.  
  
“Oh, I’ll ‘come on’,” she says, turning and leaning back on the sink. “I’ll ‘come on’ all night, if you want.”  
  
“Santana,” Rachel isn’t even looking at her, wrapping a towel around herself and tucking the end between her breasts.  
  
“Am I really out of line, wanting to just stay home and have sex with my wife on Valentine’s Day,” she asks, thinking of the super fine scraps of lace in Rachel’s size that she’d been gifted with that morning.  
  
Rachel pauses. “No.” She’s got this little smile that she gets whenever she thinks about them together — making love, Rachel would call it, even when it’s some of the filthiest fucking she’s ever engaged in — and beckons Santana over.  
  
She curls her hands around Rachel’s towel-covered hips, pulling her closer. Tiny drops of water fall from the ends of Rachel’s hair, soaking into her shirt.  
  
“And when we get home, that’s exactly what we’ll do.” Rachel leans up and kisses her for a long moment, then pulls away. “Now stop distracting me, we’re running late.”  
  
Santana’s busy sputtering about who exactly is making whom late, when Rachel turns away and pulls the door open. Or what should be the door opening, but is instead the doorknob coming away, a piece of it falling to the floor with a metal crash.  
  
“Oh, that’s not good.”

…  
  
Santana pokes her finger at the hole in the door, while Rachel peers over her shoulder.  
  
“You start getting ready, I’ll fix this,” she says like she has any idea how to do that. Rachel hands over the doorknob.  
  
“Can you hand me the tweezers?”  
  
“Flat or needle point?”  
  
“Does that seem like it will matter?”  
  
“Santana, I was merely trying to give you exactly what you wanted,” Rachel answers smoothly.  
  
“If that were the case, we would be naked in bed right now, not half naked in the bathroom.” She takes the tweezers and waits for Rachel to turn back to the vanity, before poking the tweezers into the doorknob’s— holder? Socket? The place where it no longer is but should be? —and hopes for the best.  
  
Yeah, this isn’t going to work.  
  
“Babe, I need a toilet roll holder and some Q-tips.”  
  
“What for?”  
  
“To build us a plane so we can fly out of here.” She sinks fully onto the floor and leans back against the door.  
  
“You can do this, I believe in you,” Rachel says, and then turns on the hairdryer.  
  
…  
  
“I’m cold,” Rachel says. Her hair and makeup are done, but she’s still wearing nothing but a towel.  
  
Santana digs through the hamper, finding a Columbia hoodie and a pair of sweatpants, “hey, who put this in here? This is still good.” She tosses them at Rachel.  
  
“That’s disgusting,” Santana pulls a face at that, about to launch into her usual response about how washing clothes after every wear is actually more harmful to the environment (something you would think would sway Rachel, but the woman has a thing about sweat when it’s not a part of sex), then “But thank you,” Rachel cuts in.  
  
She runs her hand over the door.  
  
“I could knock this down.”  
  
“Oh,” Rachel says, her voice like she’s talking to Gus. “Oh, honey, no.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“You’ll hurt yourself.”  
  
…  
  
It doesn’t work. “It’s not my fault, there’s not enough room to get a good run up.”  
  
“Run in a circle first.” What?  
  
“What?”  
  
“You’ll have more of a run up if you go around a few times first,” Rachel shrugs.  
  
“That’s the stupidest-” she squints at the space. It’s not the smallest bathroom in Manhattan. “Okay, this could work.”  
  
“No, Santana, wait, I was only joking—”  
  
…  
  
She can’t knock the door down.  
  
Rachel is making stupid, comforting sounds and rubbing her back, but son of bitch. She fully admits that door showed her who’s boss.  
  
“I hurt myself.”  
  
“Yeah,” Rachel kisses her temple.  
  
“What do we do now?”  
  
…  
  
The window will only open a tiny crack. Their apartment is twelve floors up and Rachel refuses to yell with her to make enough noise over the traffic.  
  
…  
  
They bang on the heating pipes for at least ten minutes before Rachel’s hairbrush breaks. Rachel refuses to let Santana use the flat iron, “because it cost more than your shoes, that’s why.”  
  
There’s nothing else in the bathroom that will make enough noise against the pipe, but they do find an old pair of Santana’s glasses, five dollars in change, and a vibrator that neither of them will admit to owning.  
  
…  
  
“We’re gonna miss the party,” Rachel pouts.  
  
“What does it even matter, it’s a made up holiday.” She’s looking for something small enough to throw out the window. “Nobody even knows who this Saint Valentine was.”  
  
“He was a Roman priest who defended the Christians, and he was beheaded by Claudius the Second on February 14th, 269AD.”  
  
“Yeah, I  _know_ , but when did the, you know, the little candy hearts come into it, huh?” She takes a swig from the bottle of Listerine she’s been holding while she looks through the medicine cabinet. Ew.  
  
“In the middle of the 16th century, the Prussians made it—”  
  
“Okay, okay,” she says, after spitting out the minty liquid. “If we ever get out of here, we will go, and we will celebrate this Prussian priest’s contribution to humanity.”   
  
“You’re a Catholic, and you went to Columbia Law, and yet these are the kind of things you say.” Rachel shakes her head in amusement.  
  
“But,” Santana presses on, “I resent being told when to be romantic.”  
  
Rachel gives up on whatever she’s doing to the door, goes and sits on the bath mat. “No one is saying you have to be anything, Santana—”  
  
“I mean, I don’t love you more just because Hallmark says I have to— and I don’t care if it started out as the Catholic church co-opting Lupercalia, it’s not what it’s about now— my point is,” she sits down on the toilet lid, because her feet are starting to get cold on the tiles. “My point is, I love you more than I loved you yesterday, but I’ll love you more again tomorrow, and there isn’t a holiday for that.”  
  
Rachel’s making that goofy face, not the one from before but the one for whenever Santana says something particularly sweet in amongst her ranting.  
  
“Come share my bath mat,” Rachel says, and pats the space beside her.  
  
…  
  
They try kicking the door down, because feet are harder than shoulders or something.  
  
All that succeeds in doing is making Gus bark, at which point they both remember: Gus!  
  
“Go get help, Gus,” Rachel calls through the door. “Go on, you can do it!”  
  
“You know Lassie wasn’t real, right?”  
  
Santana kicks the door, hoping it will make Gus bark again, but nothing happens and they sit back down.  
  
…  
  
“What are you doing?”  
  
“Cleaning.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
Rachel looks over her shoulder, and Santana goes back to the magazine she found.  
  
…  
  
“What are you doing?”  
  
“Painting the Mona Lisa.”  
  
“Can you do my toes once you’re done?”  
  
Rachel’s toes are perfectly pedicured, but she does it anyway.  
  
…  
  
Rachel’s reading the magazine Santana found.  
  
“Honey,” she says, and Santana knows that tone. “Do you think she’s attractive?”  
  
“No.” She doesn’t look up from where she’s folding a piece of toilet paper into a paper plane. She’s written a message on the wing in eye-liner and she’s going to fly it down to someone on the street.  
  
“Santana, be serious. I want to know, honestly.” Rachel’s face is completely blank, and she knows this trap, she can beat this trap.  
  
“Fine, yes. She’s very attractive. But not as attractive as you, even on your worst day.”  
  
“So you’re saying I have a worst day?”  
  
See? Trap.  
  
…  
  
“Wait, wait, no, I changed my mind.”  
  
Santana sets Rachel back on her feet, since she will no longer be acting as a battering ram.  
  
“Chicken.”  
  
She knows the slap to the arm is coming before it even happens. It’s like she’s psychic or something.  
  
…  
  
“Why has no one come looking for us?” She’s sitting in the bathtub, legs over the side and propped up on Rachel’s knees while she does sit ups and contemplates their impending death.  
  
“They probably think we bailed and that we’re having sex.”  
  
“If they didn’t show up to a party we were throwing, I would have at least called.”  
  
“Babe, if they called, we wouldn’t be able to answer, because our phones are in the bedroom.”  
  
“But they would be concerned when we didn’t answer, and come find us.”  
  
“If we didn’t answer, they would think we’re having sex.”  
  
“Oh.” Rachel flops back onto the floor. “You’re right.  
  
“Of course I am. Wanna have sex?”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
…  
  
The tiles are hard and cold and she hits her head on the side of the toilet.  
  
But still, orgasms. So not the worst way to pass ten minutes.  
  
…  
  
“Tums!”  
  
She’s cleaning out the cupboard under the basin, where there’s mostly just cleaning products, but also a few odds and ends that don’t fit in the medicine cabinet. Including—  
  
“Oh my god, Tums.”  
  
“Why are you yelling,” Rachel asks from where she’s sitting inside the bathtub, rubbing lotion into her legs. Her hoodie is back on.  
  
“I have hunted and I have gathered, that’s why. Sustenance!” She holds the bottle up like it’s a trophy. “Thank god,” she says, sitting on the side of the tub. Rachel pulls herself up onto the edge, and goes to take the bottle of antacids from her.  
  
“Hey, Captain Handsy, save it for something fun. You’ll get yours.” She arches an eyebrow at Rachel, who takes her hands back. Santana empties the bottle out into her palm and lines the little tablets up in two lines. “Six for you and seven for me.”  
  
“Why do you get more,” Rachel asks, “because you found them?”  
  
“That’s right.”  
  
“Whatever happened to what’s mine is yours and yours is mine?” Rachel gathers up her Tums and puts them in the pocket of her hoodie. “We should space these out, who knows how long we could be in here. Have you heard about the woman they found in her apartment like fifty years after she died, everything perfectly preserved as it was.”  
  
“I’d like to perfectly preserve you,” Santana mutters, and stuffs two Tums in her mouth.  
  
…  
  
“I’m bored.” Rachel is standing in the middle of the bathroom, tracing the tiles with her toe.  
  
“Play hangman again?”  
  
“No, thank you.”  
  
“I didn’t cheat.” She’s making a doll out of the toilet paper tube and and dental floss. She needs a tube of lipstick, but she can’t be bothered getting up.  
  
“I never said you did.”  
  
“You never said you didn’t think I did, either.” It’s possible her leg’s gone to sleep.  
  
“I’m bored,” Rachel says again, slowly turning in circles.  
  
“Help me up, would you.” Rachel stops and tries to pull her up, but she’s dizzy from spinning and Santana’s leg is definitely asleep, so they end up in a heap on the floor.  
  
“Hello.”  
  
“Fancy meeting you here.”  
  
“I’m bored. There’s nothing else to do.”  
  
“We’ve done everything there is to do.” Wait. “Wanna go again?”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
…  
  
This time they’re smart, and put down the towels they have, as well as the bath mat.  
  
…  
  
“Honey,” Rachel hovers over where Santana is standing by the mirror, peering at her face. She really needs a spa day.  
  
“Yeah, buttercup?” Rachel hates that name.  
  
“Honey, I have to pee.”  
  
“How convenient that we’re currently trapped in a room built just for that very activity.”  
  
“I can’t with you in here.”  
  
“Rach, come on. We’re married.”  
  
“Exactly, it would destroy all the magic.” Rachel takes her by the shoulders and pushes her towards the bathrub. Santana steps in, and Rachel closes the shower curtain. “Now, block your ears, and sing. And I’ll know if you’re looking, Santana.”  
  
“Any requests?”  
  
“I don’t care, just hurry up.” Santana blinks. “Not Lauryn Hill, honey, it’s out of your range.” There we go.  
  
“Love you, too, baby.”  
  
Santana sits down in the bathtub, and thinks about how this is a pretty good way to spend their first Valentine’s Day married, and starts to sing the first song they really sang together. The echo of the empty tub makes her sound awesome.  
  
Rachel’s done by the the end of the song, and she pokes her head between the gap in the shower curtain. “You’re so cute,” she says, looking down to where Santana’s now lying on her back.  
  
“Right back atcha.”  
  
Rachel leans over the edge of the tub and drops a kiss on her waiting lips.  
  
…  
  
“Rach,” Santana snaps her fingers in Rachel’s direction. She’s staring at Santana like she’s in a trance. Creepy, and distracting her from her game of cotton ball toss.  
  
“This may be the longest I have ever spent looking at you.”  
  
“Not true, remember that blizzard when the heat went out. We must have been having sex for at  _least_ —”  
  
“Yes, okay, thank you,” Rachel blinks out of whatever she was just doing, and sits up. “I need to look at something else for a while. Your face is starting to look like a Picasso.”  
  
“Real nice,” she glares.  
  
“Do you have any Tums left?”  
  
“Yes, and you can’t have them because you had the audacity to tell me to space them out.”  
  
She pulls a Tums from her pocket and crunches it loudly.  
  
“Was that your last one?”  
  
“Yep.” She picks up the bag of cotton balls and tosses a few more at the waste basket.  
  
“Well at least you got what you wanted,” Rachel sighs.  
  
“What’s that?”  
  
“No Valentine’s Day.”  
  
“I never said I didn’t want Valentine’s Day. I just said I wanted to spend it with you and not a bunch of our stupid friends. I don’t need all that other crap.”  
  
“Last year you gave me ‘all that other crap’,” Rachel’s pulling out air quotes is always a bad sign, but she ignores it in favor of making her point.  
  
“Yeah, because last year I was still wooing you. Now we’re married. You’ve been wooed.”  
  
“You don’t want to woo me anymore,” Rachel asks in a small voice.  
  
“Wooing is exhausting. It’s all just a distraction anyway. Wouldn’t you rather me do things for you that you know I really mean, than buy you things covered in hearts that you know I hate but feel obliged to buy anyway?”  
  
“Like what?”  
  
“Like,” she starts to crawl across the tiles to where Rachel is sitting, “bring you tea with honey in the morning, because I know you don’t like how cold the floor is.” She nuzzles into Rachel’s neck. “And let you have the last bagel, even though I’m gonna be late for work if I have to stop at the place to get breakfast.” She nips at Rachel’s neck, kissing over the tiny mark. “And, get take out from the Chinese place you like, because they have more vegan options, even though the other place does the egg rolls that are like heaven in your mouth.”  
  
“I’m sensing a food theme here,” Rachel’s trying to sound unimpressed, but her mouth is curving into a smile.  
  
“And,” Santana leans back, digging into her pocket for a moment. She unfolds her fist.  
  
“The last Tums.” There’s that face again. The mushy things face.  
  
Rachel takes the tablet, but doesn’t eat it. She gets up and goes over to the vanity, messing around with something for a moment before coming back and sitting, legs across Santana’s lap.  
  
“Hold out your hand, please.” Santana does so. Rachel leans in, kissing at her bottom lip, again and again until Santana’s distracted, and then places half the Tums in Santana’s open palm.  
  
“Wooing me with food,” Santana asks, kissing Rachel one last time. She leans back and holds her half up to Rachel’s lips, and Rachel mirrors her.  
  
“Just following some tips from the sweetest person I know,” Rachel says, before taking Santana’s fingers between her teeth.  
  
…  
  
Their fingers have gone pruney by the time Julio, their building’s doorman, rescues them.  
  
Santana’s not all that concerned that Gus managed to escape the apartment so much as grateful that the door was broken. Neither of them heard him knocking on the front door over Rachel giggling her way through a rendition of ‘I Wanna Sex You Up’.  
  
And Rachel says Santana’s been a terrible influence on Rachel’s musical knowledge.

…  
  
Santana Lopez @santana-l-b  
Spent V-Day trapped in a bathroom.  
01:36 AM - 15 Feb 18 via twitter for iPhone · Details  
  
14 replies | 1 favorite  
  
“Santana, everyone thinks we stayed home and had sex.” Santana pulls at the scrap of lace at Rachel’s hip.  
  
“They’re about to think right.” She takes the phone from Rachel’s hand, tosses it off the edge of the bed, where it lands with a thud by Gus’s head. Gus runs from the room, and curls up in the pile of towels on the bathroom floor.

“But we didn’t, they’re going to think we’re ru—” Santana covers Rachel’s mouth with her own.  
  
“They’re going to think we’re a newly married couple who spent Valentine’s Day together. Are they wrong?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“So get over it,” Santana goes back to kissing Rachel for a moment. “Besides, we did stay home and have sex.”  
  
“Santana,” Rachel cries, smacking her on the arm.  
  
She totally saw that coming. She’s psychic or something.


End file.
